A/N: Longer one this time - twice the length! - set earlyish between S2 and S3. I realise they wouldn't be popping off to people's parents every time someone died, but let's just say this guy came from near the border.
"That was a good thing you did," Porthos says as he and d'Artagnan set off back towards their camp.
"I lied to them."
"You think it would've been easier on 'em – knowing the truth? Knowing how long it took for 'im to go?"
D'Artagnan shakes his head.
"He wouldn't have wanted 'em to know."
"I didn't realise you'd asked him!"
"Fine!" Porthos stops and half turns. "Let's go tell 'em their son died swimming in 'is own piss and sick, and crying for his mama! No? Then shut up and take it when I say you did good!"
"Careful," Porthos warns in an undertone as Athos stands to greet them. "Kid's got one on 'im about Pelletier."
With a sinking heart, Athos nods and braces himself.
"Is this what happens?" d'Artagnan demands, throwing himself onto the bed without so much as a 'hello'. "No matter how much we suffer, all anyone says is that we died honourably?"
"What more would you want said of you?"
"It doesn't even mean anything, Athos! That boy died because there was nobody there to take care of him – he suffered for a week! And I've just told his parents that he died painlessly."
Athos leans against the tent post and watches their young friend. "That was commendable; you spared them a great deal of anguish."
"That's what I said."
D'Artagnan snorts but says nothing.
"Wouldn't you rather hear that I died with dignity than alone and in agony?" Athos asks. "Isn't it easier that way?"
"It still happened. You'd still be dead," d'Artagnan points out, turning to look at him. "I'd rather have the truth - I doubt there's anything that would make it easier anyway."
Athos holds his gaze for a moment, caught off guard.
"No," he says eventually, "I don't suppose there is."
"Just don't say I 'died honourably' or quickly if I didn't," he huffs bitterly, scowling again. "Constance deserves for you to be honest – and so do I."
"He still takin' it all to heart," Porthos worries as he and Athos sit playing cards in the dim light. "He can't keep grieving for every single one of 'em – it'll kill 'im."
"But he's learning," Athos murmurs with a glance towards d'Artagnan, passed out on the pallet behind them. "Pelletier was a particularly bad one."
Porthos grunts in agreement then suddenly throws his cards down.
"He's right though." Porthos passes a hand across his face. "'Died with honour' – is that what we're doing here? Really? Dyin' covered in our own filth with a hundred others' blood on our hands is honourable?"
Athos surveys his cards a little longer then downs them also, just as a boy appears at the tent flap to request him elsewhere.
"We're at war." Athos stands with a sigh, and dons his uniform. "And we're soldiers."
He is almost to the door when Porthos speaks softly.
"We don' have to be."
Athos freezes but doesn't turn.
"Porthos…I- Do not ever say anything like that in my presence again."